


Wildfire

by TheMissingMask



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Drabble, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Violence, anger issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 17:10:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6965833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMissingMask/pseuds/TheMissingMask
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Flint loses his temper and ends up injuring Silver</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wildfire

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when you commute at 5 AM and listen to a random playlist on the way. Somehow inspired by 'I am a stone' by Demon Hunter, but to be honest it has little to do with that song! It's an awesome song though. :)

Flint was enraged. He stormed into his cabin, spinning to face Silver just as the other man closed the door carefully behind himself and stepped fully into the room.

“What the fuck was that?!” 

Silver walked calmly past Flint, seeking the support of the desk before he spoke. Recent events had his captain more on edge than usual, but he stubbornly refused to let that affect his countenance.

“Beg pardon?”

“You deliberately disobeyed my orders in front of the men!”

Flint stepped into Silver’s space but the smaller man did not move. He stared down the anger on Flint’s face, never breaking his eyes from the captain’s even as the other man moved closer to loom over him, taking full advantage of the few inches he had on his quartermaster.

Silver’s voice was as steady as his breathing, as unfaltering as his gaze.

“I purposefully challenged your orders to protect the men, as I am duty-bound to do.”

In a second Flint had him pinned against the wall, forearm driving up into his throat. Silver still did not let his gaze falter for a moment despite the paltry trickle of air into his lungs and the lack of contact between his foot and the floor.

“Not in a time of war!”

“Especially in a time of war.” His voice was hoarse, “Especially when that war has your judgement impaired. I will not allow you to threaten the lives of the men to prove a point.”

Flint growled and drove his forearm further into Silver’s throat but he continued.

“Are you angry because this didn’t pan out the way you planned?” Silver had to force himself to keep a steady gaze now, to maintain it past the darkness playing at the corners of his vision. “Or is it because I just demonstrated to you how much more power I have over those men than you ever had or ever will?”

Flint saw red.

He didn’t think. Years of training and decades of experience had taught him to seek out and ruthlessly exploit his enemy’s weaknesses. And at this moment Silver was his enemy, and Silver’s weakness was all too clear.

One moment Flint had Silver pinned against the cabin wall by his throat. The next he was standing over him on the floor, gasping in pain as he held tightly the remains of his left leg. Somewhere between the two moments, Flint had thrown him down there and driven the prosthetic up into the stump with as much force as he could muster.

Blood was seeping through the cloth of his trousers. The wound was raw already. The boot too excessively worn, the leg insufficiently rested, and so this trauma must have opened some part of it back up. Or the sharp leather might have sliced the skin. Both, most likely, judging from the amount of blood now soaked into the fabric.

Just as quickly as it had surged into him, the rage was gone and Flint collapsed to his knees beside Silver.

“John? I’m sorry. No - I’m sorry.” He was frantic now. Tears spilled down his cheeks. “Please. I’m sorry.” He reached out for his quartermaster, for his partner, but pulled away as if any touch from him might cause further harm.

Silver reached out with one hand and pulled Flint to his chest, allowing him to sob into the soft curls that tumbled over his shoulder. He managed to edge up to lean against the desk, gently bringing the weeping man with him.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Flint’s voice was broken.

“Shh. It’s alright. I’m alright.” He whispered, stroking the back of Flint’s neck with his thumb. His other hand remained clutching his left thigh as if he could squeeze away the splitting pain that drilled through his bone up to the hip.

Flint’s mind was a haze. A blur of memories. Memories of anger, memories of those he had loved and already lost to his rage. Tears were like hot lava in his eyes. Stinging. Burning. He couldn’t lose Silver to that rage too. He couldn’t lose Silver. Not to anything.

He didn’t hear Billy open the door, didn’t see him standing there, eyes wide with concern. He didn’t notice the pointed stare from Silver or the dismissing raise of his hand, signalling to the bosun that everything was fine. Didn’t hear Silver grit out “I fell” through a hiss of pain.

Of course Billy didn’t believe it. But the crew would. They would believe anything Silver wanted them to. If he told them they were sailing through leviathan territory and ought to wear their shirts upon their heads to stay off an attack, they would without hesitation redress accordingly.

Howell would realise it was lie immediately upon inspection of the leg but he, like Billy, would speak nothing of it. They both knew all too well the danger associated with being so close to Captain James Flint. They had seen the danger. Lost people, friends and surrogate family, to it.

One could not hope to tame a wildfire without getting burnt.

But Silver would willingly have his body seared to ash and his mind burnt to cinders to be the one to tend this blaze.


End file.
